


Literally (But Not Actually)

by helo572



Series: Time, Space and Red Polka Dots [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Planet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Female Friendship, Light-Hearted, Oranges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6850135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things are true:</p><p>1) Clara never gets it easy;<br/>2) Galactic language is stupid, and<br/>3) The Doctor touches something she shouldn't, like usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Literally (But Not Actually)

**Author's Note:**

> Another female Doctor one shot, woo! I've been sitting on the idea for a while and my finishing was quite quick. I'm keeping my fingers crossed this is OK.

“Urinonicogalakajiorius!” the Doctor exclaims, her hands darting over the console in seemingly erratic movements, a wide grin threatening to split her face in two.

 

Clara, while also partially fearing for her life, blinks at her. “What?”

 

“Try saying that after a few glasses of wine.”

 

“Uri... non... lico? What was it?”

 

“Urinonicogalakajiorius."

 

“Urinon... ico... gaka– Oh!” The console room abruptly lurches. The Doctor races around the console, and finally settles the room with a dramatic pull of a lever, her red curls bouncing around her face. “You did that on purpose,” Clara accuses.

 

“It did save you the embarrassment of being unable to say Urinonicogalakajiorius,” the Doctor points out in return, still grinning. She checks a few more dials, then tucks the many loose strands of hair behind her ears, which promptly fall back to her cheeks, looking like a miniature waterfall down her face. “It's where we are,” she provides. “Monosexual species, feminine and yellow and all...” Her hands dance around the top of her head, waving around vaguely. “horns. A lot of horns.”

 

“Are they... Uri... nonico... al?”

 

“The Uri.” The Doctor retrieves her trenchoat from the railing, shrugging it over her polka-dot blouse, while Clara mouths, _Of course it is_. “You tried, Clara.”

 

“Thanks,” Clara says in monotone.

 

“Always one of my favourites, the Uri, if I'm looking for some good solid culture. Ten out of ten for culture, these 'gals have it all.” She makes for the door, Clara in tow.

 

“And you're thinking your womanhood will... what?” Clara prompts. The Doctor pulls open the TARDIS door.

 

“I'm hoping I'll get free drinks,” is the answer. She's got her back to Clara, walking briskly.

 

Clara, shutting the TARDIS door, rolls her eyes. “Open bar?”

 

“No, they've got orange juice to _die_ for, Clara, you have to try it.” She gestures wildly, throwing her hands in the air, punctuating her sentence. Clara has to smile, because honestly, her passion for anything and everything is unmatched. “It's like an explosion of... well... oranges. In your mouth. In juice form, though, that tastes like oranges.”

 

“It's not made of oranges too, is it?” she retorts.

 

The Doctor finally turns around, a half-grin dancing on her features. “How did you guess?”

 

Clara's sarcastic answer falls flat on its face as she takes in the scenery before her; they've landed on a small hill that overlooks an impressive collection of buildings, with architecture unlike Clara's ever seen.

 

The buildings stretch out at impossible angles, curving around each other in stunning and impressive displays of ingenuity. There's not a similar-looking building in sight; all of them are unique, with completely distinguishable styles that are so starkly different, yet complement each other at the same time.

 

Some buildings rely solely on curves, winding through other building effortlessly, in designs that resemble the ocean, the wind, the stars, and all sorts. Other buildings are all sharp angles, so sharp they look as if they could cut, and they weave precisely through their curvy counterparts, as if they were made of fire.

 

The Doctor, still in raving mode, quickly catches onto Clara's stare, and her usually knitted brow softens. She turns to look out over the city, also.

 

“Impressive, isn't it?” she asks, a tingle of sentiment on her words. “The Uri are praised for their unique architectural advancements. It's all weird angels, lots of curves, and notably, not a lot of roof. The Uri welcome sunlight, it's what gives them their skin tone.”

 

Here, the Doctor offers Clara her arm, which she playfully takes, a smile adorning her features.

 

“Would you care to accompany me to the city, Miss Oswald?” the Doctor requests in the most formal voice possible, one eyebrow raised in question as she looks down at her companion.

 

“Yes, of course, Mistress Doctor. To the... Urinon... i....”

 

“...cogalakajiorian city we go!”

 

Clara laughs, shaking her head, as the two of them walk arm in arm towards the city below them. “I totally had it that time.”

 

“You totally didn't.”

 

“I did!”

 

“–'nt!”

 

“You're impossible!”

 

“If I recall, Clara, _you're_ the impossible one, you stepped into my timeline–”

 

* * *

 

They get their free orange juice.

 

The Doctor sips at it looking like she's twelve years old and at her first high school party, and Clara dunks a mini umbrella into the glass to complement the ridiculousness of it all, smiling like it's Christmas.

 

After all, she's travelling time and space with face _and_ gender changing alien, who a matter of weeks ago, died in her arms, and now they're drinking _orange juice_ on a foreign world surrounded by yellow-skinned, horned women who are pioneers in architecture.

 

Clara Oswald is having the time of her life.

 

“You're sure this isn't alcohol? I feel like I'm smiling way too much,” Clara says at one point.

 

The Doctor manages to look offended while drinking orange juice in an umbrella-complemented glass. “ _Clara_ ,” she admonishes, “it's _orange juice_. Plus, you're with me, the most wonderful woman in time and space, on the planet with the _best_ non-alcoholic orange juice in time and space. What's _not_ to smile about?”

 

Her mind jumps to what happened with the pre-matter, but if there's a way to kill a good atmosphere, that's the quickest route.

 

Instead, she smiles again, disarmingly. “Well, you know. Orange juice that _isn't_ made out of oranges. That would be scandalous. I don't think anybody would be smiling.”

 

“Well, scandalous orange juice lovers would be smiling,” the Doctor returns. “And people who don't like orange juice, too, they wouldn't be all that bothered. They'd probably be smirking at the people who do like orange juice, reveling in their misery.” She takes a loud slurp, and Clara just shakes her head, laughing.

 

“You really are impossible,” she remarks, and is about to vaguely insult her, but a woman slides between them. Even though she's been surrounded by the Uri for the past hour, it's still a surprise when a yellow, horned face comes into view, as opposed to the Doctor's new face (which she's still getting used to too, admittedly).

 

“Hello there!” the Doctor greets, ever cheery. “Can I say, this,” She holds up her glass, which is almost empty. “is the best orange juice I've ever had in thousands of years of time and space. Apart from... well... the other time I came here. That was _also_ the best orange juice I've ever had, though I believe there was a hint more citrus? More acidic? Or maybe it's because of the chemical imbalance that comes with womanhood, I'm not actually sure.” The Doctor's gaze shifts from the Uri woman between them to Clara, and the woman's eyes follow suit. “Clara,” she continues, “remind me about that later: taste buds and femininity. I'll write a paper. And you!” She directs her attention back towards the Uri woman, who is looking most bemused. “You lot should write a paper on orange juice! I don't know how you all do it, but you do. I need to come here more often. What's the phrase, Clara... uh... treat yourself?”

 

The woman's bemused smile turns into an amused grin, which showcases her set of triangular teeth. _Funny_ , Clara muses to herself,  _Carnivorous orange juice farmers, and architecture pioneers._

 

“You are both very interesting travelers,” the Uri remarks. “And you, Clara, you are a very lucky woman. It is good to see other _munahabae_ thrive from across the galaxy. I praise you both.”

 

“Yeah...” Clara says slowly, looking at the Doctor for translation, which she knows the TARDIS should be doing, but who knows, maybe the orange juice is doing something to her brain. “We're... like, the _best_ _munahabe_ the galaxy have ever seen.”

 

The Doctor breaks out into the _stupidest_ grin, nearly snorting the remainder of her orange juice as she takes a sip.

 

“I am glad to hear it,” the woman returns, still smiling warmly, but she's stone-faced compared to the large grin ever-present on the Doctor's face. “I will leave you to your drinks. I apologise for the intrusion, I–”

 

“Oh!” the Doctor finally bursts into speech, _still_ grinning. Clara levels her with a pointed look. “No intrusion! Never! Don't ever think you're intruding, my lady, not unless there's... well... a sign that says 'no intruders' or 'trespassing prohibited', something like that, then you _might_ be intruding. Even then, it's a matter of whether you're caught or not. So, you _could_ be intruding, but... well... you couldn't. You never know. But to _this_ conversation, no, you're not intruding, I was simply showing Clara the wonders of Urinonicogalakajiorian orange juice, and the wonders of Urinonicogalakajiorian architecture. You're a very _welcome_ intrusion, in fact, because you're all simply wonderful, all you Uri. Any opportunity to talk to any of you, experience your culture, walk around in your amazing cities, certainly never an intrusion, not in my books.”

 

“Well,” the woman says in return, looking slightly overwhelmed at the overflow of words the Doctor just amassed _again_. “Then I'm pleased to make your acquaintance...” She trails off, watching the Doctor expectantly.

 

She supplies, “Doctor! And that is Clara, as you know.” The Doctor nods in Clara's direction, her red curls bouncing. “My _munahabae_ , yes, because I'm a lady, I can have a _munahabae._ ”

 

The woman, probably doing the smart thing, leaves them to their drinks. Clara scoots closer, while the Doctor continues to grin, now at the woman's retreating back.

 

“ _Munahabae_?” she prompts.

 

“Yes,” is the Doctor's intelligent response. “Exciting, isn't it? Aren't you excited, Clara? I've never been a _munahabae_ before. This womanhood thing, it's rather exciting. Why didn't you try to induct me sooner? It's quite inconsiderate of you, if you think about it, if you knew being a woman was so great.”

 

Clara rolls her eyes. “Yes, I _love_ being a woman, and also your _munahabae_.” Here, the Stupid Grin returns, threatening to break the Doctor' face in two. She then stage-whispers, “What is a _munahabae_? It didn't... uh... translate.”

 

Now, the grin is replaced by astonishment. “It didn't?”

 

“ _No_ , otherwise I wouldn't be asking, would I?”

 

“Oh, but that's just right,” the Doctor continues. “Of course it wouldn't translate, it's you humans with all your slang words. Earth slang, ugh,” She mock-shivers. “You know, when you achieve space travel, you're the laughing stock of any and all galactic linguists out there. While you're a wonderful species, Clara, but your language is just _awful_. You make everything into slang. Including the lovely word _munahabae_. The TARDIS doesn't always pick up on slang to translate, you see. You can't expect her to cater to your _every_ stupid invented word, she's a time machine, not a dictionary–”

 

“So tell me what it means! In my despicable earth slang if possible, please, so I know what you're talking about.”

 

“I _can_ see where you got it from, though,” the Doctor continues, and Clara gives a lengthy sigh. “The slang word, I mean. It's quite clever of you humans, actually, but don't tell anybody I said that. I'd be booted from the galactic linguistics commission for life, and you know I live a very _long_ time–”

 

“Doctor.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What. Does. It. Mean.”

 

“Oh, right,” she says. “Girlfriend.”

 

It takes a few moments for Clara to process the subject of the Doctor's raving– the word _girlfriend_ , supposedly dirty Earth slang, that the TARDIS refuses to translate. _Munahabae_ does sound a lot cooler, though, Clara will give the galaxy that.

 

Then, the realisation hits her like a rock. A well-placed one, too, right at the back of her head which makes her eyes go wide.

 

“I'm your...” she starts, horrified.

 

“Yep!” She pops the 'p'. “Told you, monosexual species, very feminine. And we both _look_ feminine, so they think we're together. Which is just right, here, it's part of their culture, the sacred relationship between all women, whether it be romantic, platonic, spiritual....”

 

“I'm your girlfriend,” Clara repeats.

 

“Isn't it exciting!” the Doctor near _squeals_ in return.

 

“The Doctor's... girlfriend,” she repeats one more time for good measure. “That's... that's...”

 

“Great! Isn't it? I've never been a girlfriend before Clara, and if it isn't obvious I'm quite exc–” Clara stops her, her hand raised. 

 

“You and I, we travel in time and space, yes?" she says. The Doctor leans forward, listening intently. "You, a magical alien from outer space took me, a human earth girl, away for adventures. It's _friendship_. You took me with you because you appreciated my snide remarks and good fashion sense. Not that I'm _opposed_ to being with other women, it's just, you're _the Doctor._ And you're hopeless at flying your own spaceship anyway, you don't need my legs wrapped around your waist added into the mix.”

 

The Doctor, had she been in possession of any orange juice, would have choked on it as she starts laughing hysterically.

 

“Oh, Clara,” she says, when she's gathered herself. “I do love your...." She's still laughing. "Yes... snide remarks." She gives her a quick pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for that. Needed that laugh, I think. More room more orange juice!" She grins wickedly, then signals for the bartender.

 

Clara smiles too, tongue poking out from between her teeth. This alien is truly going to be the death of her one day.

 

* * *

 

They visit the orange fields, which are just as magnificent as the Uri's architectural feats, but for a whole different reason.

 

They stand overlooking a sea of orange, as far as Clara can see. The vibrant painting across the landscape encompasses the whole valley below them– the home of an underground lake, the Doctor tells her– and is one of the largest plantations on the planet.

 

It's absolutely beautiful.

 

It also hurts Clara's eyes.

 

“Should'a bought my sunnies,” she remarks to the Doctor, a hand on her brow.

 

The alien tsks. “More Earth slang.” Then, she grabs Clara other hand, and leads her closer to the pastures.

 

Uri work among the rows of oranges, testing them between sharply nailed fingers with precision Clara didn't know a woman in acrylics could have. (She also makes a mental note to mention fake nails to the Doctor at a later date.)

 

The Doctor weaves them through the pastures, admiring the atmosphere, the smell, the sight– all of it, simply taking it in. They cross the field, and on a spare piece of land, in the grass, the Doctor falls back onto the green pasture. There, she picks an orange from the nearby try, and gives it a squeeze like the Uri are doing in the pastures around them.

 

“I reckon we should take some back to the TARDIS,” she says, admiring the fruit in her hand. “They'd go well with some of those pancakes you keep going on about, yes? You said everything goes well with pancakes. What about gazpacho? Would that go with pancakes?”

 

“Eggs and bacon would probably be better,” Clara suggests.

 

The Doctor starts peeling it carefully. Clara sits down next to her, admiring the vibrant view once more. She exhales, about to remark something else to the Doctor, when a Uri voice rings out, “Thief!”

 

Immediately, the Doctor looks around, frowning. Clara, however, looks straight at her, and then sighs wearily.

 

“Where?” the Doctor asks, looking back at Clara.

 

Clara raises an eyebrow, inclining her head towards her.

 

“Thief!” the Uri calls again, her voice closer.

 

“I know a thief might blend in here, but–” The Doctor gets halfway to her feet when Clara sets a single finger on her chest, now with both eyebrows raised. Her eyes fall to the half-peeled orange in the Doctor's hand. The Doctor follows her companion's gaze. “Ah,” she says.

 

“Ah,” Clara mimics.

 

“We should probably... uh...” She sets down the orange on the ground, in the grass, and gives it a pat for good measure. Clara rolls her eyes. “... go.”

 

“Thief!” the Uri calls again.

 

“What a wonderful idea,” Clara remarks, highly sarcastically, which sends the Doctor into another grin as she grabs her hand.

 

“You love _all_ my ideas, Clara,” she says, tugging her companion to her feet, and then the two of the dart in amongst the rows of orange trees. “Newest one- run!”

 

* * *

 

They run all the way back to the TARDIS. It's not far– the planet is small, and the TARDIS is easy to spot in amongst the foliage.

 

The Doctor clicks her fingers as they near, opening the doors wide. Clara sprints in first, followed by the Doctor, who immediately turns to close the two doors behind her. There, she collapses against them, out of breath. Clara leans over to brace her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

 

“Oh... oh my gosh!” Clara exclaims. “Did we have to run...” She huffs, laughing a little. “... all the way? I'm pretty sure they stopped chasing us – as soon as we left the pasture.”

 

“What a ridiculous question!” the Doctor admonishes. “Of _course_ we had to run, Clara. What kind of person do you think I am?”

 

“A thief, apparently.”

 

The Doctor laughs, shaking her head, making her curls fall against her face. However, she _keeps_ laughing, so much that Clara steps forward in concern, about to ask her friend whether she is alright, but the alien waves a dismissive hand at her.

 

“What?” Clara asks instead.

 

Still wheezing with laughter, she shakes her head wordlessly. Clara narrows her eyebrows in question.

 

“What is it?” she queries again. “Is it me? Do I have something in my hair again?”

 

The Doctor shakes her head, _still_ laughing. Her eyes are squeezed shut, crinkled at the sides.

 

“Did you go and see the Brigadier again?” Clara tries, and asks accusingly.

 

That makes the Doctor laugh _more_. Then, she slowly gathers herself while Clara stares disdainfully, arms crossed. She finally looks back up at her travelling companion, a splitting grin on her face.

 

“I just think it's funny,” she gets out.

 

“I can see that,” Clara replies. “What, pray tell, is funny, dear Doctor?”

 

The alien's grin somehow gets wider. “It's... oh...” She's evidently trying to break out into giggles again, and manages to compose herself, albeit barely. “I just can't believe I'm Clara Oswald's girlfriend.” She dissolves back into a fit of laughter.

 

Clara Oswald simply gives a long-suffering sigh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :*)


End file.
